


This Is Not New, It Only Feels Like It

by snarkasaurus



Series: Fictober 2018 [30]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Hale-McCall Pack, M/M, silly nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkasaurus/pseuds/snarkasaurus
Summary: Fictober 2018, Day 29. Stiles gets spell-induced amnesia.





	This Is Not New, It Only Feels Like It

Stiles rattled his fingers against the tabletop, trying to keep his nervous movements to that one expression. It sort of worked. He wasn’t bouncing his leg or fidgeting in his seat, anyway. He didn’t know why he had all this energy. Well. Okay, he knew that he was nervous as hell and that everything was weird and seemed foreign and awkward, and it was manifesting like this. But it seemed to him that there was more energy than he should have just stemming from anxiety. 

And wasn’t it weird that he knew words like anxiety? Shouldn’t amnesia take out things like language and word retention? But then, he wasn’t dealing with normal amnesia. He knew that much without being told. He could remember a lot of things. He knew that flamingos stood on one leg to conserve energy. He knew that humans had walked on the moon. He knew that he should know a lot more, but there were huge gaps in his memory. 

“It should wear off,” Deaton was saying to two men that Stiles figured he should know but didn’t. Hell, he only knew the black man’s name because the tall, muscular one with black hair and scruff had snarled, “Call Deaton,” and this was who had showed up. 

“How do you know?” the one with the funny jaw asked. 

Deaton hummed. “You said he was hit by a spell?”

“That’s what it seemed like.” 

“I don’t know of any spells that can cause permanent amnesia. Especially ones that are so knowledge-specific like this. Keep him in familiar environments. He should come out of it in a couple of days. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do.” 

Oh great. Stiles swallowed as he looked up at the three men eying him. Days not knowing who anyone was and only knowing his name was Stiles because they’d told him that. 

“Do I get a say in this?” he asked, aware his tone was sarcastic but unable to help himself. 

Deaton raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to be confused and wracked with memory loss for the rest of your life?” 

“You just said that you don’t know of any permanent spells,” Stiles protested. 

“Just because I don’t know of any,” Deaton said calmly, “doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Staying in a familiar environment, surrounded by familiar things should help your memory return.” 

“...wonderful,” Stiles said with a sigh. 

~*~

“Wait, so...we live together?” Stiles asked, looking around the cozy apartment. It was big, warm, comfortable, an add-on to a bigger house where, apparently, the rest of the people who’d been orbiting them warily lived. 

Derek—he’d been told that was tall, dark, and scruffy’s name—nodded, looking almost shy. “We’ve lived here in the house for about three years, after all of you graduated college. Scott took his vet tech certification and is working with Deaton. You’re a lawyer. Lydia’s an accountant. Well. Okay, you’re Chief Legal Officer and Lydia’s the Chief Financial Officer. Both of you run Danny’s tech company. It gives Lydia the freedom to pursue the complex math stuff she wants to do. You spend time doing...other stuff.” 

Stiles blinked a few times. “I’m a lawyer. That…” He thought about it. “Yup. I know that.” 

Derek stared at him. “You know you’re a lawyer?” 

“Yeah. Apparently it’s relatively selective amnesia. My dad’s the sheriff, isn’t he?” He crossed the room to look out the window at the darkness. “I’ve lived in Beacon Hills my whole life. I went to UCLA because I wanted to get some perspective away from northern California. I went to Stanford law. I’m 28 years old. My mother died almost 20 years ago.” Stiles looked back at Derek. “I don’t remember anything about you, though. Or any of the rest of them. There’s an entire blank spot where you’re all related.” 

Derek slowly sat down in a large, squishy recliner and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrubbing his face with his hands. “You remember that much about your life but you didn’t remember your name?” 

Stiles sighed and sat down in the other squishy chair. “I’d bet that one of you gave me the nickname. I remember my mom and dad calling me by another name, my first name. It didn’t feel right, though, and Stiles did. And then there’s a blank.” He looked at the walls where there were a dozen framed pictures of various smiling groups of people. The same people who were next door. “So why do we live here, in this little seperate apartment?” 

Derek lowered his hands and studied him. “No guesses?” he asked dryly. 

Stiles frowned and took that as a challenge. “If everyone in the...you said pack, right? Werewolves the guy with...Scott said. So everyone lives in this house because they want to be near each other. And we live in this separate apartment because…” He paused and studied Derek’s carefully impassive face. “We’re together, aren’t we?” 

Derek nodded his head once. 

“You’re my…” he paused and looked down at his hand, noting a lack of ring or mark where a ring would be. “Boyfriend?” 

Derek paused. “Yes.” he took a breath. “The last few years.” 

There was something Derek wasn’t saying, but Stiles let it go for now. There was a lot he was trying to process and frankly, he only had so much brain power. He was trying really, really hard not to panic right now. He’d been okay. He’d been able to hold it together all this time, from where he woke up in the forest to being taken to the vet’s clinic to being brought here. Everyone was walking on eggshells around him; he didn’t have to know them to know that. Having such massive blank spots in his memory was… 

“Stiles?” Derek said, and Stiles blinked. The man was right in front of him. When had he moved? “Breathe. Come on, focus. Feel my chest moving, breathe with me.” Derek took Stiles’s hand and put it on his chest, exaggerating his slow, even breathing. “Feel that? Breathe with me.” 

Stiles responded to it, working to shift his hyperventilation to a more normal breathing pattern. How had a panic attack snuck up on him like that? How had he not noticed Derek moving, crouching in front of Stiles’ chair? It didn’t matter. It couldn’t right now. That way lie more panic. Instead, he forced himself to listen to Derek’s voice, to follow Derek’s directions, to breathe with the chest movement that Derek was giving him to focus on. 

There was a familiarity in this even while it felt foreign and strange. He closed his eyes and pushed at the panic firmly. He was safe. That much was clear. He didn’t feel threatened, only...scared. Scared he could do. Breathing was more important now. In. Out. In. Out. 

“That’s it, Kit. Good.” Derek’s voice was low and calm, giving Stiles something else to focus on. They kept like that for a few minutes, until Stiles felt like he could open his eyes and look at Derek without that feeling of panic swamping him again. “Better?” 

“Yeah...thanks.” Stiles studied Derek’s face. It was concerned but not unduly so. It was much as though this was something they’d done before. A lot before. Interesting. “Kit?” 

Derek flushed a little, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. You’re...like a fox. A fox kit. But it was awkward to keep calling you ‘fox kit’ or ‘fox,’ so I started using ‘kit’ and it...uh. It stuck.” 

Stiles wasn’t sure which was sweeter: the nickname or the way Derek was blushing. “I like it,” he said quietly. “It feels. It feels right?” 

Derek smiled a little.

~*~

“I have no idea why I made this, but here. 5 egg omelette with sausage, caramelized onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, and a slightly terrifying amount of cheese; a small mountain of toast; a pot of coffee in this carafe and another brewing; and bacon. A lot of bacon.” Stiles put the last plate on the table and looked at a sleepy Derek who’d just padded into the kitchen. He was shirtless, flannel pants riding low on his hips, and blinking to clear his eyes. 

“Mmmm,” Derek said, and crossed the kitchen, crowding Stiles up against the counter and burying his face into Stiles’ neck, arms looping around his waist. 

Stiles froze. It had been 3 days of no memories, no recollections related to any of the people around him, no way to give himself any kind of grounding in reality to make sense of anything. He’d been sleeping in what was apparently his and Derek’s bed while Derek slept on the couch, which was Derek’s choice. He’d said, that first night, that it didn’t feel right to put Stiles in the position of sleeping next to a man he didn’t remember, no matter what their relationship was. He’d stayed stubbornly to it. He also hadn’t touched Stiles beyond giving him the grounding necessary to pull Stiles out of a panic attack, three more repeats of the hand-to-chest breathing assistance since the first one. 

And now he was wrapped around Stiles like a warm blanket, snuggling close and nuzzling...yes, nuzzling Stiles’ neck. And it felt so good. It felt good and right, and after the instant of freezing, Stiles melted into it, wrapping his arms around Derek in return. 

Derek, who Stiles had felt start to stiffen and pulled away in response, went right back to snuggling tight against Stiles, gently stroking Stiles back with one of his hands, the other tightening around Stiles and pulling him closer. Stiles closed his eyes and sighed softly, soaking up this warmth, the love flowing through it. Because there was love. He could feel it, almost tangible in the air, flowing between them. His head may not remember Derek, but his heart and body did. 

He softly kissed the bare shoulder. “Derek,” he said softly. “Thank you.” 

“Mmm, f’r what?” Derek mumbled into Stiles’ neck. 

“For your patience. For your care. For… for this.” Stiles squeezed a little with his arms. “This is hurting you, I know it is, and yet…” 

Derek slowly pulled back and looked at Stiles. For the first time, Stiles appreciated that they were of a height; in fact, he had an inch or so on Derek. He was caught by Derek’s intense gaze, the color of his eyes starting as hazel. The more Stiles looked, though, the more they seemed to soften to grey with a darker ring around the outside...then swing back toward hazel… He was mesmerized by the shift. It seemed almost like the emotions he could see flicking past influenced what color Derek’s eyes reflected. 

“This is our life,” Derek finally said, his voice quiet and...gentle. Possibly the most gentle he’d ever used over the last couple of days. “You made that omelette because it’s the same breakfast you’ve made for me every Saturday morning for the last two years. Tomorrow, Sunday...Sundays, I’ll make pancakes, the same as I’ve done. Sundays, it’s the pack, though. I make pancakes for the pack. You make bacon. Lydia makes coffee. Isaac, Scott, and Allison do dishes. That’s the way it’s been for...well. Since you all came back from college.” His eyes were searching, hiding something. Stiles suspected it was pain. “Do you remember what you were thinking to make the omelette?” 

Stiles desperately wished he had a better answer for Derek. He wanted to be able to say yes, that his memory was returning, that he remembered. He wanted it so badly he ached. He couldn’t lie, though. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I just...was on autopilot, I guess. I woke up, I peed, I came to the kitchen.” 

There was a flare of pain in those beautiful eyes, and Stiles’ heart hurt when Derek pulled away. It wasn’t a physical withdrawal at first. It was an emotional one. The open, wanting look that had been lurking in Derek’s eyes shut down. The easy comfort of Derek’s body against Stiles’ was gone. In its place was a tension that was pulled away a moment later in the form of Derek letting go of Stiles and taking two clearly deliberate steps back. “That’s okay,” Derek said, and it was so clearly a lie that Stiles wanted to cry. “Thank you.” He turned and left the kitchen, coming back a moment later tugging his tee shirt on. 

“Here,” Stiles said, trying to breathe around the knot in his throat. He put the plate laden with food on the table, along with a mug of coffee prepared, he assumed, exactly how Derek liked it. It wasn’t how he liked it, but he’d done it without thinking, so he could only assume… “I’ll be back in a minute.” 

When he finally returned to the kitchen, Derek had the tact and grace not to mention that Stiles smelled like the salty tang of tears.

~*~

“You’ve taken all of the fun out of teasing you,” Erica complained, kicking at Stiles’ leg with her foot. The entire group of people—the pack. The pack. Stiles had to remind himself that they referred to themselves as the pack, even if he couldn’t think of them that way. The pack was in the large living room of the shared house. Almost everyone was piled onto the couch, tangled together and draped across each other in some way. The sole exceptions were Lydia, who was stretched across a loveseat with her laptop in her lap (“I have important math things to do, I will shoot you if you continue to give me those eyes, Isaac.”), and Stiles, who was curled up in an armchair. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’d selected the chair that he knew would hold only him. 

That didn’t stop them from figuring out how to touch him. Such as Erica kicking him. “I’m...sorry?” he offered. His foot was tapping again. He forced himself to stop. 

Erica huffed. “And that’s exactly why it isn’t fun anymore. You’re not yourself. If you were yourself, you’d have snarked at me.” She pouted. 

Well that was...interesting. “It...okay.” He had no idea what to say. How was he supposed to respond to someone telling you that you weren’t the same? He _wasn’t_ the same. He didn’t know if he would ever be the same again. He felt a pull toward all of these people, kept doing things that he didn’t know, didn’t _understand why_ he was doing them or knew how/why to do them. He had been around them all for a week. He was no closer to sorting out his memories, figuring out who he was in relation to them. 

Erica frowned. “Sorry,” she said. She sounded sorry, too. She looked sorry, looked worried. Everyone looked worried. Derek looked like he was in pain. 

Stiles closed his eyes, feeling the familiar choking sensation rising in his throat again. His chest tightened and he searched for breath control. Slow breaths, right? He could focus, could count… one, two, three, four, one, two… It wasn’t working, though. His ears were ringing and his head felt fuzzy. Why couldn’t he focus? Hadn’t he used to have medication? He could remember that. It hadn’t helped much, though. Breathing helped. Right? He could focus...count…

“Stiles.” Derek’s soft voice broke through the rising haze of panic, and he forced his eyes open to look at his...partner? Boyfriend? Friend? He didn’t know. He didn’t _know_ , and wasn’t that the problem? “Kit,” Derek said again, and caught one of Stiles’ fisted hands, gently uncurling the fingers and pressing them against his chest. “Find my breathing. Feel it in your fingers. Match yours to it.” 

Derek’s steady, even breaths and warm body gave Stiles the grounding focus he needed. He latched onto the slow rhythm, unconsciously fisting his fingers in Derek’s shirt. Breathing. Slow, even. He could do this. He kept his eyes on Derek’s face, and Derek’s gaze didn’t waver either. 

Stiles was dimly aware of movement around him, but his world was focused on those intense eyes and the steady heartbeat and breath. It took him a long time to steady himself, and by the time he did, he felt limp and depleted. He finally let out a long, shaky breath and closed his eyes, slumping forward and letting his head hang down. 

“Good job, Kit,” Derek murmured and leaned forward to press a kiss against the top of Stiles’ head. “You all right now?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, wondering if it was really true. “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” There was rustling, and Derek’s legs, the only thing in Stiles’ field of vision, shifted to a cross legged position from the crouch he’d been in. “You’re dealing with a lot. You’ve got a giant part of your life missing. You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed.” 

That wasn’t helpful, nor entirely what Stiles’ meant. He looked up, and realized they were alone in the living room. Great. Everyone else had run away because of his fucking panic attack. He closed his eyes. He was suddenly completely exhausted. “I think...I want to go to bed,” he whispered.

Derek’s eyes searched his, but he nodded and pushed himself up in one fluid movement. He offered his hand. Stiles forced himself to take it and let himself be pulled to his feet. And then—

“Derek? Will...will you come to bed with me?” At Derek’s wary look, Stiles hurried to clarify. “I just want to be held. I need...I still feel really shaky, and I would like...please?” 

Derek hesitated only a moment longer before he nodded. “Yeah.” 

Stiles walked toward their apartment space in a haze. His panic was still a very real, very tangible thing within him, and it was not going away. The empty space in his head, where the memories he knew should be there, all of the things he was missing, was echoing. The panic rattled around that cavernous space and left him feeling too cold, too hot, too alone, too fragile. Too much. 

He could feel Derek right behind him, and that helped. Derek was a solid presence in all of this, something that he could count on, someone that he knew would be there even though none of this made any sense to him. He’d proven it over and over across the span of this week. In Stiles constant waves of panic and confusion, Derek was a solid _something_ that Stiles could rely on. 

Right now, he gently nudged Stiles toward their bedroom. “I’ll be right there,” he said quietly. “I’m going to put on pajamas so that this is more comfortable.” He went to a drawer and pulled out some clothes before going into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him with a firm click. 

Stiles stared at the door for a long moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Derek was right. Pajamas. Pajamas made sense. Stiles went to his own drawer, staring down at the slightly rumpled rows of sleep pants and shirts, wishing he understood better why there were five different pairs with various Batman prints, why there were two with poodles, another with ducks, and a fourth with penguins. There had to be stories behind each of these pairs of pants, and he just couldn’t _remember_. 

He’d said something to Lydia earlier in the week that he’d been repeating over and over. To himself: “None of this is new, not really. It just feels like it right now. And that’s more disconcerting than almost anything else.” And that was the problem he kept having. It was the thing that kept sending him into panic attacks. Things felt new even when he _knew_ they weren’t, and it was unbalancing, scary, and so many other things that he didn’t have words for. 

He took another shaky breath and pulled out a random pair of pants. It didn’t take long for him to be stripped down, changed, and crawling under the covers on the bed. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. In. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. In. Two...He kept breathing in as steady a pattern as he could manage, a rhythmic cycle of four. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the echoing, desperate chasm of his head. 

He was so focused on his breathing that he didn’t hear Derek come out of the bathroom or cross the room. He shuddered when he felt strong, gentle hands on his back, curling around his torso, pulling him back tightly against a broad, solid chest. “Derek,” he whimpered. He groped for one of the hands, found it, pulled it tight against his chest, curled around it. He kept his eyes closed as Derek curled tightly around him, making Stiles feel small, safe, protected, comforted…

Loved. 

Derek was murmuring against his shoulder. Stiles felt it more than heard it. The echoing in his head was too loud. In fact...it was getting louder? It was beginning to hurt, actually. He shuddered. Derek immediately pressed himself closer, pressing Stiles down into the bed a little as Derek curled a leg over Stiles’ legs. 

Stiles held on, squeezing his eyes against the rising surge of pain. It was too much, so loud, so intense, it was like a thousand sirens going off at once, the tension of an overfilled balloon just before it popped, the instant before you broke a bone and you _knew_ it was going to break and hurt, but you couldn’t stop. 

“Derek!” Stiles whimpered. It _hurt_. His head was pounding. The only hope he had was staying focused on the warmth and strength surrounding him, holding him, pressing him against the mattress. He crushed Derek’s fingers in his own, holding the hand tight against his chest. It was his only anchor against this yawning, aching emptiness. 

And then with a snap, there was nothing. 

Stiles lay limp in Derek’s tight hold, panting. The pain was gone. The _echo_ was gone. The tension had broken, and he was left limp. 

But he knew who held him. “Derek,” he whispered. 

“Kit.” 

Stiles smiled slightly. He knew that nickname. He knew why. He knew where it came from. He _knew_. He let go of Derek’s hand and squirmed until he could turn around and face his boyfriend. His partner. His mate, because that was the thing Derek had been hiding from him. They hadn’t spoken of it, but it was very much understood that they were the mated alpha pair and that’s why this pack worked, with Stiles as the bridge between Scott and Derek. 

“I know you,” he said softly, tracing fingertips across the planes of Derek’s face. He was watching those beautiful eyes as he said it, and he saw the flicker of wariness, concern, and pain before hope took over. 

“You know me?” 

“I know that you have been through hell this week, waiting for me to get my memory back. I’m so sorry, Copper.” It was his own response to the fox-based nickname, Copper as in Copper and Todd from _The Fox and the Hound_ , and one he’d come up with once Derek had settled on Kit. He also knew he hadn’t used it all week, and it was the one way he could think of to tell Derek that his memory was back. 

It worked. The hope transformed into a joy so bright it was almost painful to see. “You’re back,” he whispered. “Oh god, I don’t ever want to go through that again.” 

Stiles shifted close and kissed Derek gently. It felt so good. So blessedly, perfectly right, and it had been too long. He was gratified by Derek’s response, which was to bury fingers in his hair and deepen the kiss immediately. He responded, and it was several long moments before Stiles finally had to break away for air. He pressed his forehead against Derek’s, appreciating the tangle of his body with his mate’s. 

“What changed?” Derek asked quietly. His right hand was gently stroking Stiles’ back while his left played in Stiles’ hair. (Stiles had a fleeting thought about how odd it was that he was so aware of where Derek’s everything was right now, but considering the lack of touch over the last week, it made sense.)

“I don’t know,” Stiles said honestly. “There was a lot of echo in that space that felt so empty all week, and it just kept echoing and echoing, and it...it got louder? And hurt. It became all I could hear or feel, and then. With you touching me, holding me so tightly, I guess everything finally...broke free.” Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath that was shakier than he’d have liked. He felt soft kisses on his cheeks and smiled. “I’m okay, babe. Really.” 

“Yeah, well…” Derek’s grip tightened. “I’m not going to want to let go for awhile.” 

Stiles was okay with that.


End file.
